by Batya Gur
“Why don’t you eat the grapes?” Theo’s pleading voice filled the interior of the van.
Now Michael identified the unfamiliar emotion in it. It was fear. Fear and a panicky eagerness to please. There was the rustle of plastic bags, and again the creaking of a chair. “Okay, save them for later,” said Theo’s placating voice. “How are you, Herzl? Are you feeling better?”
Silence. Outside the van, a car alarm wailed in the distance, and there was muffled roar of traffic.
“I have to tell you something,” said Theo in a different, restrained voice, after a long silence. “I’ve come to tell you about Gabi. Gabi’s dead.”
Not a sound.
“Did you hear me, Herzl?” Again the voice was almost falsetto. “He was murdered. The day before yesterday. After the rehearsal.”
“At his apartment?” another voice suddenly said, weighty and muffled, hoarse as if the words emerged with great difficulty, struggling through sedation.
“No, in the concert hall building.”
“Was he shot?” asked the other voice.
“No,” said Theo, and he paused for a moment. “With . . . a knife, maybe.”
“Ah, stabbed in the heart,” said the voice, as if relieved.
“His throat was slit,” corrected Theo.
“A lot of blood,” said the weighty voice thoughtfully. Suddenly, clearly and matter-of-factly, it asked: “Who did it?”
“They don’t know,” said Theo. “They’re looking.”
“Ah. Looking.” Herzl’s voice was muffled again. “They won’t find him,” he said softly.
“Maybe they will,” said Theo. “They’re working hard at it.”
“They won’t find anything,” promised Herzl. “They never found out about your father. Gabi told me. He was murdered, too.”
“Gabi told you about Father?” Theo was flabbergasted. “When did he tell you?”
“When he was here.”
“When?”
“They won’t find the person who killed your father. They haven’t found him up to now. And they won’t find whoever killed Gabi, either.”
“With Father it’s different. It’s because of the painting that—”
“Not the painting, not the painting.”
“The painting was stolen,” said Theo loudly.
“But not because. Not because. There’s a lot of evil. Everywhere. There’s a lot.” The voice died away slowly.
“When did Gabi come to see you? Why didn’t he tell me?”
Silence.
“Don’t close your eyes. Don’t go to sleep now, Herzl,” urged Theo. “Help me. We’re the only ones left now. We and Nita.”
The sound of a contemptuous snort echoed in the van. Michael shivered.
“Herzl,” pleaded Theo. “I’m talking to you.”
“You didn’t tell me about your father. You didn’t come to tell me about it,” said Herzl accusingly.
“How could we?” Theo’s voice sounded despairing and guilty. “We didn’t know where you were!”
“Gabi knew. He found me.”
“He didn’t tell me,” pleaded Theo. “If I’d known I would have—”
“They suffocated him, too,” said Herzl.
“It’s not the same thing,” protested Theo. “It was only after Gabi died that they discovered . . . How do you know? How do you know that they suffocated him and that it wasn’t an accident?” he asked, alarmed. “Herzl, if you know things like that, we have to . . . The police know that you weren’t in the hospital on the day Father was murdered. Where were you that day when you left the hospital, Herzl?”
“Did you find the music?” asked Herzl with sudden animation.
“What music?”
Silence.
“What music are you talking about?” Theo’s voice was now cold and tense. “What do you know that I don’t know?”
“You know, you know,” said Herzl. “Now everything, everything is . . .” The grating of the chair legs masked the rest of the sentence. “Don’t touch me!” shouted Herzl. “I can’t stand it when you touch me.”
The chair legs grated again. “Look, I’ve moved away,” said Theo nervously. “Why are you angry with me, Herzl? I didn’t know where you were, believe me.”
“I want to go back to my room.” Herzl’s voice again was dull and tired. “Take me back to my room.”
“They’re looking for the painting,” said Theo, ignoring the request. “The police are conducting a search.”
“Take me back to my room,” repeated the muffled voice.
“In a minute. Just tell me, what happened with the lawyer, Meyuhas?”
In the seconds of silence Michael felt his jaw muscles tighten. Balilty opened his mouth, Michael shook his head warningly, and Balilty said nothing.
“Your father loved Gabi,” said Herzl. “He loved Gabi most. It’s a good thing he died before him.”
“He left a will. He left you—”
“I don’t want anything from anyone. I don’t need anything. Only the music,” Herzl interrupted him with sudden animation. “Everything belongs to you.”
“And to Nita,” said Theo.
“And to Nita,” Herzl agreed. “She has a baby.”
“And he left you something, too,” said Theo appeasingly.
“I don’t want anything. Is the shop closed?”
Michael could imagine Theo’s nod.
“They’ll sell it,” said Herzl in a broken voice. “Take me back to my room, and then bring me the music.”
“I’ll take you back in a minute.” Theo’s voice shook. “What music?”
Silence.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” pleaded Theo. “You know that you’re dear to me.”
Suddenly Herzl’s voice was heard. Hoarse, surprisingly deep, it was humming a sweet melody. It ended abruptly. “Bring me the music,” he said in a resolute, threatening manner. “It was your father’s and it belongs to Gabriel. He said so. And now I want it. Gabriel’s dead.”
Seated behind the wheel, his hand on the gearshift lever, Balilty turned the upper half of his body toward Michael, an inquiring expression on his face. Michael shook his head uncomprehendingly and shrugged his shoulders.
“They want to know if you saw Father on the day he died,” said Theo.
Silence.
“Did you hear me? Herzl? They say that you left the hospital that day. They want to know if—”
“Take me back to my room,” Herzl’s voice echoed threateningly. Again the chair’s grating masked muffled words.
“Aren’t you taking the grapes?” asked Theo.
There was the sound of heavy, dragging feet.
“The police are searching your apartment,” Theo’s voice announced defiantly. Balilty froze and gave Michael an accusing look, as if to say: I told you so, look what you’ve done.
The noise of the footsteps came to an abrupt halt. “It’s my apartment!” he said with a despairing cry.
“I told them so, and I also told them—”
“They’re not to touch my things!” Herzl’s voice rose strongly, suddenly clear and lively. “The things I collected, and my music and the instruments and the records! They’ll destroy the virginal I built! Those things are all mine! I didn’t take anything from anybody!” Now he burst into tears, and Theo’s soothing, reassuring voice did not drown out the sobs.
“I only . . . I told your father that he mustn’t . . . that he must . . .” His voice was choked. “And I told him not to talk to the lawyer, but he only . . . And afterward . . . I don’t want them to touch my things!” There was the sound of a body thudding to the floor and Theo’s panic-stricken voice calling, “Herzl! Herzl!” Then the sound of a door opening. “We’re going in,” ordered Balilty.
Theo, his face white and stiff, his mouth gaping like a mask, stood in the doorway of the hospital director’s office. The office was empty. His arm leaning against the doorpost, Theo looked at them. “I don’t know if he’s
dead,” he said hoarsely. “You . . . you . . . I didn’t do anything to him.” The panic in his eyes turned quickly to accusation: “I knew you were lying,” he said over the kneeling Balilty’s back, which was bent over Herzl.
“There’s a weak pulse,” he said to Michael. “No need for resuscitation.” Balilty gently shook Herzl’s shoulders and slapped him on the cheeks. “Call a doctor,” he ordered, then stood up himself and ran out of the room.
Theo dropped onto the leather armchair and stared into space. Michael looked at him and at the long scarecrow body beside which he was now kneeling. He laid his fingers on Herzl’s wrist. He felt the weak pulse and then put his face very close to the twisted mouth with the whitish foam at its corners, listening to Herzl’s shallow breathing. Then he stood up and looked at the white wisps of hair sticking up like a clown’s wig, wondering how old the man was. Herzl looked old, but his face was unwrinkled. A few teeth were missing from his gaping mouth, which smelled of tobacco and acetone.
“You told him about our searching his place,” Michael said at last.
“To wake him up,” explained Theo hoarsely. “He was completely indifferent, apathetic.”
“But you didn’t ask him what music he was talking about.”
“He’s sick, he’s crazy, he’s hallucinating,” muttered Theo. “He mixes everything up—the music, the lawyer, everything.”
“But you know what he was talking about,” Michael gambled.
“Me?” Theo demanded, astonished. “I have no idea—”
“He talked as if you both knew exactly what it was about. He said, ‘Bring me the music.’ He sang you a bit of it. You’re a musician. You recognized it,” Michael insisted.
“Can’t you see that he’s insane? Can’t you see that he doesn’t make sense? I have no idea what he was singing!”
Theo looked at the shrunken body, and Michael, watching his eyes, said firmly: “He sounded quite sane to me. Even though he’s sick. He spoke as if you both knew what he was talking about. Like some family story.”
“I knew you were lying to me,” said Theo bitterly. “The whole time I had the feeling that you were standing under the window or overhearing us like in a detective story.”
“And that’s why you tried to distract him. To change the subject whenever he mentioned that music,” said Michael. He was about to continue when Balilty returned with a woman doctor and two middle-aged men.
“Take him quickly to the ER,” said the doctor to the two men and pushed her glasses up to her forehead after she had knelt next to Herzl, called his name, slapped his face, and listened gravely through the stethoscope. “He’s lost consciousness,” she said to Balilty. “We have to find out what happened. Maybe he swallowed something. We can’t know without examining him. He’s not epileptic or diabetic,” she said, and put her fingers on his throat again, nodded, stood up, and folded her stethoscope. “We’ll transfer him to a regular hospital if he doesn’t come around in a few minutes. It could be serious. Are you a relative?” she asked Balilty, who shook his head. Then she turned to Theo.
“I’m the relative,” he said.
“Then please stay here,” she instructed him, “until we see if we have to transfer him. The pulse is hardly audible, and his blood pressure is very low. With manic depression like his, you can never tell what he might have taken.”
They left a police car outside the hospital entrance. Three times Balilty said to Zippo: “And don’t move from here. If they transfer him, notify us. And don’t let Theo van Gelden make a move without you, stick to him like a shadow” Three times, until he was convinced that Zippo understood.
Theo had stood at the entrance to the emergency room complaining about various things and looking at his watch and at the sky, which was still gray and oppressive. His look remained with them as they left the psychiatric hospital. The radio transmitter had beeped the moment Michael opened the door of the van, to which he had returned to retrieve his cigarettes. The technician handed him the instrument, and Emanuel Shorer’s secretary sniffled, sneezed, and apologized before saying: “He’s on the phone and he wants to know if you can come see him at the hospital right away. He’s already been briefed on everything. He’s edgy because he’s finally seen the newspapers and TV this morning. And the Commissioner and the Minister have already contacted him,” she explained.
The many years they’d known each other, and the motherly affection she felt for him, caused her to speak to him now as if they were old allies. Maybe she liked Michael because of the flowers he brought her from time to time, and to the attentive ear he lent to her problems with her adolescent son. She always spoke to him in a flirtatious manner, to which he spontaneously responded by stroking her hand. And he never failed to praise any change in her appearance, complimenting her on a new dress or hairdo. How little it took to make a woman happy, he would think with the pangs of conscience that sometimes made him feel cheap.
Michael rubbed his cheek and looked at Balilty, who started the car and shifted the gears as if he hadn’t heard anything.
“No problem, I’ll drop you there,” he said to Michael when they reached the end of the street. “You yourself once told me that the fear of being afraid is worse than fear itself. What more can happen? Talk to him and get it over with.”
Michael said nothing. He wanted to say something like: Don’t let him take me off the case. The kind of thing that he would normally have said to Shorer directly. And now, all of a sudden, Shorer was the one he needed the protection and patronage from. For a moment he even considered asking Balilty to accompany him into the hospital, to be with him at the meeting with Shorer. If only it were possible simply to share his feelings about the baby with Shorer! If not for the investigation, if not for his involvement in the case, he could have done it.
“Your great good luck,” said Balilty, “is that he’s in trouble. He’s worried to death about his daughter.” He seemed immediately to realize the poor taste of what he had said, because he began to chatter as he always did in order to efface the impression made by some unfortunate mistake or slip of the tongue, talking about the night his own daughter was born, about his anxiety about becoming a grandfather, about the impossible helplessness of waiting in hospital corridors when fateful things are being determined.
“I’m going to join the search of Herzl’s apartment. Maybe we’ll find some musical score there or something,” he said, making a face and stopping the car in front of the hospital in which Shorer was awaiting Michael. “But how will we know what music we’re looking for?” he complained. “We’ll have to take everything and bring in an expert. I’ll leave a message with Tzilla,” he promised. “When you’re finished here, get in touch with her. What a figure!” he said, nodding toward a young woman in a tight white smock passing on the pavement opposite them. “Like a movie star. Look, look! You can see everything, exactly where her underpants end. And the way she walks! And that pair of headlights! These nurses are something else! I wouldn’t mind a piece of that,” he said, sighing. Then he nodded at Michael, who got out of the car, and drove off.
The big window before which they stood burned red and gold. It was not raining. The moments during which the oppressive gray of the sky had turned into the colors of a khamsin sunset had passed unnoticed by Michael. In the distance he could see two bulldozer drivers taking advantage of the last moments of light to go on leveling the hill opposite. The flags next to the huge billboards announcing the luxury apartments about to be built here hung motionless in the windless air. During the hour they had sat together in the corridor, Shorer had told him in detail about the past twenty-four hours. Twice he had wiped his eyes, and Michael had felt anxiety gnawing at him in anticipation of Shorer suddenly bursting into tears. White stubble covered his jaw. The space between his upper lip and his big, hooked nose, where for years now he had grown a thick mustache, was totally gray. His eyes were red, and his complexion, usually dark, was yellowish. The brown spots on his upper cheeks stood o
ut, underscoring the acne scars scattered over his skin. He spoke compulsively, without pause, and it was hard to know when the right moment would arrive for Michael to bring up his own business. For a moment Michael considered avoiding the entire subject. After all, he told himself as he went to get them both coffee from the nurses’ room, why burden him now with your conflicts?
The thought developed into a full-scale speech, which sounded completely convincing as he poured boiling water onto the instant coffee powder. The broad back that was turned to the corridor, the forehead pressed against the big windowpane, the eyes that had been staring at the Arab village at the bottom of the hill, and the hoarse voice that said: “Here we are on Mount Scopus, as the song says”—all this and the nod of the head toward the gray hills and the lights blinking in the distance exposed the fatuousness of the hope of sparing him and refuted the possibility of putting things off. On the contrary, he found himself waiting anxiously for the right moment to break in at last and give Shorer the situation report, as he called what he would have to say.
“What does it look like?” Shorer suddenly asked, turning away from the view. “Give it to me briefly. The Commissioner’s called here three times. The District Command is bogged down with its own scandals, and at least it keeps them off our backs. But they’ve got time to phone. Who appointed Balilty to take your place? You?”
Michael nodded.
A moment or two passed before he began to explain, quietly and briefly, the chain of events at the crime scene from the moment he saw Gabriel van Gelden’s body. Shorer listened without looking at him.
“Okay. I understand. It’s got everything but the kitchen sink,” said Shorer. “But why is Balilty the head of the team? Since when have you ever stepped down from a case for him like that? Are you under pressure in your studies? Is it a family problem? Is Yuval okay?”
Sometimes a nod, a little white lie, a possible evasion, a diversion, seems such an easy way out, thought Michael as he said aloud that Yuval was fine.
